


rule variations

by tripcyclone



Series: Katsudon & Yurio [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Drinking Games, Drunk Sex, Future Fic, Jealousy, Multi, Oral Sex, Polyamory, Stripping, Voyeurism, foot worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-18 20:42:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11298459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tripcyclone/pseuds/tripcyclone
Summary: Victor and Yuuri play strip janken, and Yuri tries to deal with always showing up halfway through.





	rule variations

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this kinkmeme prompt.](http://yurionicekink.dreamwidth.org/881.html?thread=185969#cmt185969)
> 
> This work takes place in the same universe as a longer Victor/Yuuri/Yuri slow burn fic I’m in the process of writing. It's four years post-canon, Yuuri has just retired after Worlds at age 27, and Yuri is in Hasetsu trying to recover from a disastrous season caused by a late growth spurt.

Yuri arrived at Victor and Yuuri’s place around 8:30 PM—later than usual but not _late_ , not by a long shot.  Yuuko had let him stay on the ice after the rink officially closed, and he had shown her the bare bones of his new short program.  “Ah, it’s so unlike all your others!” she said when he was done.  “It’s so much more…”

“Masculine?” he asked, a little ruefully. 

“Commanding,” she said.

He liked the sound of that.  He let the word roll around in his head as he walked home: _commanding._ The program was meant to be forceful: the artistic equivalent of grabbing someone by the chin and refusing to let them look away.  When Victor choreographed it, part of him had probably been thinking _masculine_ , to capitalize on Yuri’s absurd new height and close-cropped hair, but that was just a superficial layer.  The real message was that Yuri had come through to the other side of his body’s betrayal just as strong as he was before—stronger, even.  The eyes that had looked away from him in embarrassment during his shaky transitional season would be compelled back, and he would hold them there.  The world wouldn't know what hit them. 

Such was the grandiose tenor of his thoughts when he unlocked the door to Victor and Yuuri’s place and opened it right into the small of Victor’s back.  “What the fuck?” Yuri said, looking down.

“Owww,” Victor moaned.  He was curled up on the floor, shirtless and missing a sock.

“Jesus Christ,” Yuri said.  “It’s barely dark outside, how are you this drunk already?” He stuck his foot through the doorway and nudged Victor’s shoulder with his foot.  “Move, I can’t open the door.”

Victor grumbled but rolled over, planting his face in the rug.  Yuri squeezed past him and shut the door.  He looked down at Victor’s prone form: the pale sweep of his back was reddened where the door had clipped him.  Yuri nudged him with his foot again.  “Where’s Katsud—” 

Yuuri emerged from the kitchen before he could finish, his finger hooked into the neck of an open sake bottle.  He had on a shirt and both socks, but his pants were gone.  “Yurio!” he exclaimed.  “You’re back so late!”

“I’m really not,” Yuri said, kicking off his shoes.  “You geezers have no conception of _time_ anymore.”

Yuuri set the bottle down among several empties already on the coffee table and tripped gracefully into Yuri’s arms.  Yuri couldn’t tell if he’d done it on purpose or not, but he wasn’t going to argue with it.  He crushed Yuuri close, letting his nose drop down into Yuuri’s choppy black hair.  It was a little damp, and underneath the miasma of alcohol Yuri could smell fresh soap.

 _Someone_ clearly expected to get laid tonight.

“Were you at the rink this whole time?” Yuuri asked.  He tilted his head up to look into Yuri’s eyes.  Yuri knew he was checking to see if he was lying, so he gave a noncommittal _mmm._

 _“Yurio,”_ Yuuri said, trying to look disapproving. 

“Don’t _Yurio_ me, hypocrite,” Yuri said.  It wasn’t like Victor or Yuuri had ever voluntarily stopped practicing when there was still life enough in their bodies to try.

Yuuri was too drunk to stay stern.  He lifted himself up on his toes and kissed Yuri: a smiling, messy kiss that missed most of Yuri’s mouth but still managed to knock him square in the chest.  Yuri was still getting used to the new rhythm of his life in Hasetsu, where at any moment Yuuri or Victor might decide they wanted to touch him, and then just... _touch him_ , as if it were simple.  As if it weren’t _impossible,_ like Yuri had been telling himself for years.

It was supposed to work in the opposite direction as well: Yuri knew at any moment he could reach out and touch them, too.  But something inside him kept hesitating.  It was so much easier to wait until they crashed into him and then just let the momentum carry him along. 

Yuuri’s mouth was drowsily exploring the line of Yuri’s jaw, and Yuri tilted his head, trying to draw Yuuri’s attention back to his lips.  “C’mere,” he murmured, a hint of complaint in his voice, and he was rewarded with the full press of Yuuri’s mouth against his.  Yuuri was tart-tasting, pliable, full of soft affection, and heat started to curl through Yuri’s body like smoke.

Then Yuuri twitched in his arms.  “ _Victor,_ _”_ he said, looking down.

Yuri looked down too.  Victor was still face-down on the floor, but he’d reached out and slid one finger into Yuuri’s sock.  “I’m coming for this one next,” he said, muffled.

Yuri rolled his eyes as Yuuri wriggled his foot away, extending his leg out in a vague _arabesque_ so Victor couldn’t reach it.  He was too drunk to balance on his own, and most of his weight abruptly became Yuri’s responsibility.  “God, this fucking game,” Yuri said, sagging backwards with Yuuri’s head cradled against his shoulder.  “What’s it called?  Junken?”

 _“Janken,”_ Victor said. 

“ _Strip_ janken,” Yuuri corrected him. 

“Whatever the fuck it is, it’s ridiculous,” Yuri said.  “Why can’t you just get drunk and fuck like normal people?”

Victor rolled creakily onto his back.  “When you’re as old as we are,” he sighed, “sometimes you do these things just to feel young again.”

Yuuri made a pitying sound and let go of Yuri, dropping to the floor next to Victor with a thump.  Ever since Victor turned thirty, he’d been acting like he already had one foot in the grave.  Yuri had always relished tweaking him about his age, but it wasn’t as fun when Victor reacted with such morose acceptance. 

“Come on, let’s show Yurio how to play,” Yuuri told Victor, tugging at his arm until he sat up.  

“I’ve _seen_ you play it before,” Yuri said.  “And I’ve seen what you look like the day after.  It’s not pretty.”

But the two of them were already brandishing their fists at each other.  “Ready?” Yuuri asked. 

“Ready!” Victor said.

They chanted something in Japanese—their hands bobbed and resolved—and Victor was holding scissors to Yuuri’s paper.  _“Yes_ ,” Victor said triumphantly, and instantly took one of Yuuri’s sock-clad feet into his lap.  Yuuri started laughing before Victor even had the chance to tickle him, and when Victor _did_ slip his sock off and run his finger along the arch of Yuuri’s foot, he almost got a giggling kick in the face for his troubles. 

Then he lifted Yuuri’s foot up and pressed a kiss against his instep, and Yuuri’s laughter quieted.  He watched, expectant and fond, as Victor kissed his way over to the knob of Yuuri’s ankle, his tongue fitting itself briefly into the dip near his heel.  Then his lips slid down to pick their way across the joints of Yuuri’s toes, and Yuuri made a low anticipatory noise as Victor slowly sucked two of them into his mouth.

Yuri looked away.  He’d seen Victor do it before—though not in the middle of the front room with all the lights on—and there was something so intimate about it, so _insular_ , that it made him feel disoriented, like he’d wandered somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Yuuri lean back on his elbows, and he felt an impulse to look at Yuuri’s face, to see the endearing little contortions it made as sensation washed through him. 

And Yuri _could_ look.  He was allowed. 

But he still hesitated. 

So he kept his head turned away and just listened to the quiet sounds of Victor’s mouth in the silent room.  Yuri knew what it _would_ look like: Victor would have his eyes closed, one hand extended to massage the tight muscle of Yuuri’s calf.  His mouth would move with unhurried reverence down the line of Yuuri’s toes, worshiping each one, laving and sucking.  It wasn’t until Yuuri laughed, bright and jarring, that Yuri lost the picture of it inside his head.  He turned and looked: Victor’s tongue was weaving ticklishly through the spaces between Yuuri’s toes. 

Finally, finally, Victor returned Yuuri’s foot to the floor, and the two of them smiled at each other in a way that made Yuri’s stomach twist.  It made him want to hop on the next flight to Russia and _forget_.  He cleared his throat. “Okay, I don’t remember you doing _that_ the last time you played this,” he said. 

Yuuri’s smiling gaze transitioned seamlessly to Yuri.  “It’s a different set of rules,” he said.  “It’s a v—”  He paused.  “A v—Victor, what is it?”

The two of them squinted at each other.  Yuri could practically _see_ them rummaging through piles of undifferentiated vocabulary in their heads.  “A _variation_ ,” Victor said.

“Yes!” Yuuri exclaimed.  “First turn, strip, but you have to do it slowly.  Second turn, drink, but you have to do it fast.  We’ll show you.”

They thrust their hands out and chanted again.  Yuuri lost, scissors to Victor’s rock, and he reached for the open sake bottle on the table.   There were two glasses nearby but Yuuri ignored them, taking a long, hard swig directly from the neck.  A non-trivial amount spilled out onto his shirt and the rug.  “Jesus,” Yuri said, leaning down to yank the bottle out of his hand.  “I think you’re drunk enough already.”

 _“Yurio,”_ Yuuri complained, fruitlessly reaching after him.  “You know me.  I could be _way_ drunker than this.”

“Yeah?” Yuri asked.  “Does your dick still work when you’re drunker than this?”

Yuuri’s outstretched hand hesitated.  “Sometimes!” Victor offered cheerfully.

The scent coming from the open sake bottle drifted past Yuri’s nose.  It was familiar—the Katsukis kept crates and crates of it at the onsen—but he’d never actually tried it before.  The first time he came to Hasetsu, he was too young; on subsequent visits, he was too paranoid.  He knew his traitor hormones were just waiting for his inhibitions to drop so they could make him do something mortifying, like climb naked into Yuuri’s bed.  Yuri had been keeping so many secrets that he couldn’t risk losing control. 

But he was pretty much out of secrets now.  The only thing stopping him from getting just as shit-faced as Victor and Yuuri was the prospect of burning off the calories the next day.  He thought about it, stepped out of Yuuri’s reach, and took an experimental slug straight from the bottle. 

“Yurio!” Victor said, his voice somewhere between amused and warning.  “You should know, as your coach, I don’t recommend alcohol consumption during the training season.”

“Bullshit,” Yuri said, grimacing at the burn in his throat.  “You were always trying to get Katsudon drunk during the training season.”

“Well,” Victor said, not denying it.  “I always thought he loved me more when he was drunk.”

“I’d love you more if _I_ were drunk,” Yuri said. 

Victor looked touched.  “Really?  Okay, then you have my permission.”

“I don’t _need_ your _—_ " Yuri grumbled, then gave up.  His stomach already felt a little warm.  The sake was lighter-tasting than he expected, and an unfamiliar kind of sweet.  It was…okay. 

He sat down on the couch next to the coffee table and swiped one of their abandoned glasses, filling it almost to the brim.  He set the bottle down on the far end of the table where they couldn’t reach it.  Yuuri looked at it with resigned longing.  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drink before, Yurio,” he said. 

“I know,” Yuri said.  “That was on purpose.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t know what I’d end up saying to you if I was drunk.”

Yuuri’s eyes lit up.  “What do you think you would’ve said?”

 _I love you_.  That was the one he’d been most afraid of.  Or: _I want to fuck you so badly I_ _’m losing my mind_.  Or: _I know from deeply embarrassing context clues that you_ _’re usually the one fucking Victor, but please let me fuck you, just this once._

“I would’ve said something…self-incriminating,”  he said.

Yuuri reached over to poke at his knee.  “Like _what?_ _”_

“If I finish a couple of these, you’ll probably find out,” Yuri said around the rim of his glass.  “Go back to your weird sex game.”

“You could play too, you know,” Victor said.

“I’ll pass,” Yuri said.  “This is more your guys’ thing.”

It was a weak argument— _monogamy_ had been their thing, right up until it wasn’t—but Yuri stared resolutely at the inside of his upturned glass until he heard the two of them start up their chant again.  Yuuri won, and with a vindictive gleam in his eye he ripped Victor’s remaining sock off and let his fingertips glide over the arch of his foot.  His touch was agonizingly gentle, and Victor practically swallowed his lower lip trying to act like it didn’t tickle.  Yuuri continued the light, grazing touch until Victor’s lip unbuttoned under the force of a sputtering laugh, and then Yuuri relented and dug his thumbs into Victor’s heel, massaging.  Victor collapsed onto his back to enjoy it as dramatically as humanly possible. 

Yuri made it halfway through his glass.  His head was beginning to feel a little light and slippery.  He hadn’t been drunk in over a year, since the Worlds before last, when he’d missed the podium for the first time since his senior debut.  Instead of going back to his hotel room and kicking the shit out of his luggage, which was his usual tradition when he lost a competition, he’d gone to a club with Otabek.  He got drunk without hesitation: Otabek already knew his worst secrets.  Yuri had two drinks and felt good; Otabek put away three with no noticeable change in his demeanor. 

Then Yuri had a third and Otabek had a fourth, and they both fell to fucking _pieces_.  Otabek’s normal reticence disappeared: Yuri had to physically drag him away from the soundboard, where he was loudly chastising the DJ for his sloppy transitions in three different languages, none of which the DJ spoke.  Yuri’s light, buzzy feeling shifted into something weighty and horrible, and he didn’t protest when Otabek shoved him into a booth and gave him a bracing pep talk on the state of his career.  Yuri listened to him talk about _temporary setbacks_ and _off nights_ and _a million more opportunities, waiting right in front of you,_ and he almost believed it, right up until the point his head dropped to the table and he fell asleep. 

For Yuri, there was a very thin line between feeling good and being _gone._

“What _is_ sake?” Yuri asked abruptly, staring at his glass. 

Yuuri looked thoughtful, his thumbs still working against Victor’s foot.  “It’s made from rice.”

“But like, what is it?  Is it liquor?  It can’t be, you guys drink it like it’s beer.”

“Well, we’re _very_ good at drinking,” Victor said. 

Yuri picked up the bottle from the table, but it offered no clues: everything on the label was written in Japanese.  Yuuri gave Victor’s foot one last rub and set it on the floor.  Victor levered himself up with startling speed, throwing his arms around Yuuri and planting several noisy kisses against his shoulder and collarbone.  Yuuri writhed in his grip and laughed. 

Yuri emptied the rest of the bottle into his glass. 

“I’m feeling lucky,” Victor said as the two of them held out their fists again.  He promptly lost, paper to rock, and Yuuri smirked triumphantly. “No, that’s what I meant by lucky,” Victor said, tugging at the drawstring of his pants.

Yuuri narrowed his eyes.  “That’s _my_ job,” he said. 

Victor lowered his hands obediently.  Yuuri pressed two fingers against Victor’s chest until he got the hint and laid back flat on the ground.  One of the couch pillows had tumbled to the floor, and Victor pulled it over, propping it up behind his head so he could watch what Yuuri was doing.  Yuuri undid the drawstring of Victor’s pants and tugged them down past his briefs. 

Yuri glanced over the rim of his glass, his eyes drawn to the outline of Victor’s half-hard cock under the gray fabric.  Yuuri’s attention was similarly fixated.  He pulled Victor’s pants the rest of the way off and cast them aside.  Then he pushed Victor’s legs apart and laid down in between them, settling his head on the jut of Victor’s hip.  His nose and lips were tantalizingly close to the tented fabric.

Victor shifted a little underneath him.  “You look comfortable,” he said.  “Please don’t fall asleep.”

Yuuri grinned and tilted his head forward, letting his nose graze the lump in the fabric.  Victor made an encouraging noise, and Yuuri nuzzled him until the encouraging noise switched to a lament.  Then he shifted forward and took the cloth-covered head of Victor’s cock into his mouth. 

Victor groaned, his hands twitching at his sides.  Yuri watched the little movements of Yuuri’s jaw as he started to suck on him, lazy and slow, his hand moving up to squeeze Victor’s shaft through the fabric.  _“Yuuri,”_ Victor sighed.  Yuuri moved down, mouthing and licking the outline of Victor’s cock, and Yuri could see the dark spot at the tip where Yuuri’s mouth had dampened the cloth. 

Yuri’s own dick was starting to take an interest in the scene in front of him.  He imagined setting his glass down and crawling over to them, joining in: lowering his mouth over that damp spot on Victor’s underwear and tasting the tang of him leaking through.  He imagined Victor’s hand cupping the back of his head, holding him there, not wanting him to stop.  He imagined Yuuri’s wet mouth moving up and down Victor’s shaft, his cheek grazing against Yuri’s, the two of them working in tandem while Victor shuddered beneath them. 

He could do it. 

He was allowed. 

But instead he just watched as Yuuri’s mouth returned alone to that damp spot and sucked again, harder this time.  He watched as Victor groaned, reaching out to tangle his hand in Yuuri's black hair.  He watched the tension in Victor’s fingers as Yuuri moved down to suck raggedly at his shaft; saw the way Victor started to pull on Yuuri’s hair, lightly but directively, trying to encourage his mouth upwards again.  Yuuri looked at him from under hooded eyelids, full of smiling refusal, and Victor said, his voice small, _“Yuuri.”_

“Hmm?”

“I love you,” Victor said.  His hand tightened in Yuuri’s hair and tugged again.  _“Please?”_

Something clanged inside Yuri’s chest, like a metal gate slamming shut.  His slippery thoughts were starting to turn sticky against the inside of his skull.  None of this was new: he’d been listening to Victor declare his love for Yuuri eight times a day for literally years.  On the rink in St. Petersburg—over lunches and dinners—during cab rides and plane trips and in the middle of photoshoots, even after the photographer told Victor in no uncertain terms to _stop moving his mouth._ Yuuri didn’t usually declare his love back, but he had a way of looking at Victor—soft, indulgent—that communicated the same thing.  It was the same look he was wearing now, as he allowed Victor to guide his head back up to the straining tip of his cock. 

None of this was new. 

So why did Yuri suddenly feel so _awful_?

It was jealousy.  The realization appeared fully formed in Yuri’s head, like someone else had put it there: he was jealous.  _Fuck,_ Yuri thought.  It would’ve been so much easier to blame the sake for the sudden ache in his chest.  Tomorrow the effects of the alcohol would be gone, and he could’ve pretended the feeling had gone away with it, but Victor and Yuuri’s four years of accumulated closeness wasn’t something Yuri could banish in the morning with water and aspirin. 

Yuri looked down at his glass.  The alcohol was supposed to make his tongue loose and his mind liquid, but instead he was wound up tighter than a spring, holding back the one secret he had left: that he was _jealous_.  It was the stupidest admission imaginable.  There was nothing, literally nothing, that Victor and Yuuri were denying him.  He could ask for anything and they would give it to him. 

The only thing they couldn’t give him was the memory of being there from the start. 

He took another drink, trying to picture the alcohol wrapping around his brain like gauze, blurring his thoughts into nothing.  It didn’t work.  Victor and Yuuri always started without him; by the time he arrived they were always mid-game, engrossed, entranced with each other.  They always started without him, and they also uncomplainingly made room for him when he got there, and _why wasn_ _’t that enough?_

“Yuuri,” Victor said, and Yuri automatically looked over.  Yuuri was resting his head against Victor’s hip again, idly stroking Victor’s cock with his hand.  His mouth was several inches away from the wet bloom on Victor’s underwear, and Victor was visibly antsy.  “Yuuri, I forfeit.”

Yuuri angled his eyes upward.  “What?”

“I forfeit,” Victor said.  “You win.  I declare myself the loser.”

Yuuri leaned forward and brushed a whisper of a kiss over the head of his cock.  “There’s no _forfeiting_ in strip janken,” he said.  “You either don’t play, or you play right up until the very end.”

“Then stop teasing me and let’s do the next turn!”

Victor sat up and pulled Yuuri up with him.  Yuuri swayed dizzily for a moment, then made a lazy show of stretching his arms.  Victor let out one of the whiniest instances of _“Yuuuuuuuuri”_ that Yuri had heard in weeks.  “All _right_ ,” Yuuri said, and held out his fist. 

They chanted—the motion of their hands moved blurrily through Yuri’s vision—

“Ha!” Yuuri crowed, leaning over to snip his fingers at the flat plane of Victor’s hand.  “Victor, I won.  That means you have to do what I say.”

“I’m heartbroken,” Victor said, thumbs dipping under the waistband of his briefs. 

Yuuri reached out smoothly and stopped him. “I didn’t _say_ yet,” he said.  He leaned in close to Victor’s ear.  “I get to pick something for you to take off,” he said.  “I pick Yurio’s shirt.”

Yuri blinked.  “What?”

A light went on in Victor’s eyes.  He grinned, sucked a kiss against Yuuri’s jaw, and then lunged cheerfully for the couch where Yuri was sitting.  “Wait— _fuck!_ _”_ Yuri shouted, lifting his glass over his head a half-second before Victor could knock into it.  Warm hands slid along Yuri’s abdomen until they found the hem of his shirt.  “Jesus Christ,” Yuri said, “wait _two seconds,_ ” and he threw back the rest of his sake in one huge, fiery swallow.  He dropped the empty cup on the couch and was instantly blinded by the whip of cloth as Victor yanked his shirt over his head.

“I’m _pretty fucking sure_ that’s not how the game—” Yuri started to say, but the end of his sentence died as Victor tossed his shirt aside and pressed Yuri bodily down onto the couch.  All the cold empty air touching Yuri’s skin was suddenly displaced by the weight of Victor’s body, heavy and fever-hot, his mouth moving in a hungry line down the column of Yuri’s throat.  He zeroed in on the fluttering pulse in the crook of Yuri’s neck, sucking hard, and Yuri couldn’t stop the sharp, involuntary sound it wrung from him.  He clutched at the back of Victor’s head, fingers tangling through his mussed silver hair, and he held on with rigid breathlessness as Victor’s mouth tugged hard and shameless at that same spot, making it ache, making it bruise. 

“I’m pretty sure this isn’t in the rules,” Yuri managed eventually.  His voice was weaker and his dick was harder than they had been a minute ago.

“It’s how we play it in Japan,” Yuuri said from the floor, sounding very sure of himself.  Yuri knew he was lying, but he couldn’t exactly prove him wrong.  He wasn’t about to text Yuuko and ask _When you play strip janken in Japan, are you allowed to start stripping a random third person who's just hanging out and trying to relax after a long day?_

Victor’s head dipped down, lips and teeth worrying the ridge of Yuri’s collarbone, and Yuri shivered.  “Victor, goddammit it,” he said, gripping at his arms.  Victor lifted his head and Yuri hauled him in for a kiss. 

The first time he’d kissed Victor, he’d thought in a daze: _this is why I never stood a chance with Yuuri._ Victor approached kissing the same way he approached skating: he practiced hard until people started giving him medals for it.  Even drunk, Victor kissed like he could read Yuri’s mind: anticipating every tilt of his head, every stroke of his tongue, pulling them both to the brink of breathlessness and then easing off, until Yuri’s head was spinning from it.

Then Victor shifted on top of him, throwing one leg over both of Yuri’s, and Yuri could feel the rigid heat of Victor’s cock pressed against his thigh.  He bent his knee and pushed up against it.  Victor’s mouth faltered against his, his breath rasping in his throat, and Yuri felt a little smug.  Victor was a good kisser, but it was even more satisfying to get him so worked up that he became a bad kisser.  Yuri started rubbing his thigh against the front of Victor’s underwear, and Victor groaned into his mouth, his hips starting to move, a grinding friction that started to make Yuri’s cock strain against _his_ underwear—

“New turn,” Yuuri said, his voice strangely thick in his throat.  Victor didn’t seem to hear him, and Yuuri tugged at Victor’s ankle.  “Come on _, new turn._ If you want to keep going, you have to play another round.”

Victor screwed up his face in protest.  He kissed Yuri one last time, teeth scraping over Yuri’s lower lip, and then clambered back down to the floor. 

The cold empty air hit Yuri’s skin again, and he _hated_ it, even though he was boiling hot now, alcohol and arousal simmering in his blood.  Fortunately Victor and Yuuri weren’t wasting any time: they held their arms out and counted, hands moving fast—

Victor threw paper, and Yuuri’s fingers twitched, something suspiciously scissor-shaped morphing into rock.  _“Yuuri_ ,” Victor said accusingly. 

Yuuri gave him a beautifully innocent smile.  “It’s not cheating if I _lose_.”

“Fine,” Victor said.  “Then I’ll take off your shirt.”

He leaned in, his hands moving purposefully to Yuuri’s waist.  _“Vic-torrrr_ ,” Yuuri complained, his face puppyish and pleading. 

Victor sighed.  “Fine,” he said.  “Yurio’s pants.”

Yuuri swept a happy kiss across his cheek and crawled past him to the couch, heaving himself on top of Yuri in a way that was going to make it difficult for him to actually take off Yuri’s pants.  Yuuri didn’t even pretend to try: he cupped Yuri’s face in his hands and looked down at him with clear satisfaction, his thumbs stroking the fine blond hair near Yuri’s temples.  Yuuri was smaller and slighter than Victor, and he didn’t banish the cold prickle of air as effectively: Yuri pulled him in closer, hooking his ankle around one of Yuuri’s legs, trying to trap all of Yuuri’s warmth and weight and affection against him before the universe could conspire to take it away again. 

Yuuri wriggled in the tight cinch of Yuri’s arms, laughing a little.  “C’mere,” he said, his lips hovering just shy of Yuri’s, and Yuri lifted his head off the couch to kiss him.  Yuuri was the first to admit that he didn't kiss as well as Victor did, but it didn’t matter: he was the one Yuri had kissed first, and the firecracker memory of it still echoed inside every kiss that came after.  If Victor's kiss grounded Yuri in the pleasure of the present moment, then Yuuri’s kiss splashed backwards, a constant head-spinning reminder that Yuri had gotten what he thought he could never have.

Yuri felt a faint pressure against the side of his arm: Victor had scooted over to the couch and laid his head down on the cushion next to Yuri’s elbow.  “Yuuri,” he said mournfully.  “You’re doing your turn in the wrong order.”

Yuuri’s mouth broke away from Yuri’s, and Yuri chased after his lips for a moment, feeling cheated.  “Victor’s right,” Yuuri said gravely.  “It’s very important we play this game correctly.”

Yuuri hefted himself back up, precariously straddling Yuri on the too-small couch, and he started undoing Yuri’s jeans with a lot more dexterity than Yuri expected.  He kept forgetting how much _practice_ the two of them had at this dumb game.  Victor guided Yuri’s hips up off the couch, and Yuuri peeled his jeans down, swiveling awkwardly so he could tug them off his ankles.  The jeans were tight enough that Yuri’s socks came off with them, dislodging one of the adhesive bandages covering up the blisters on his feet, and Victor reached over and carefully smoothed the bandage back down over the angry red skin.  The unspoken tenderness of the gesture made the ache in Yuri’s chest come back in full force.  Maybe it _was_ the alcohol.  Yuri didn’t see how it could be jealousy when Victor and Yuuri were _right there,_ sweet and loving and solicitous. 

Yuuri laid back down on top of Yuri with a pleased huff of breath.  “You’re losing very badly,” he observed. 

“The socks don’t count,” Yuri said.  “I’m also _not playing_.”

Yuuri grinned.  He planted precise kisses on the elevated peaks of Yuri’s face: nose, chin, the apples of his cheeks.  “So,” he said.  “Are you going to tell me now?”

“Tell you what?”

“All the incriminating things you would’ve said if you’d gotten drunk with us before.”

Yuri couldn’t take the playful look in Yuuri’s eyes.  He trained his eyes on the ceiling.  “It’s nothing you don’t already know,” he said. 

Yuuri nibbled at his jawline.  “Then it wouldn’t be weird to _say_ it,” he said reasonably.

If Yuri were sober, he might’ve been able to come up with a lie—or he might’ve been able to tell the truth with careless nonchalance, as if it were nothing.  But he had drunk too much, too fast, from a bottle he couldn’t even read, and now the truth sat right behind his teeth, waiting for its moment.  He closed his eyes.  “I would’ve told you that I wanted you,” he said.

“ _Mmm,_ ” Yuuri hummed against his skin.  “What else?”

“I would’ve told you that I wanted you for _so long,_ _”_ Yuri said. 

Yuuri’s lips moved to the tender spot below Yuri’s ear.  “Yeah?” he asked softly.  “How long?” 

Yuri said, “From the begin—”

—and his voice cracked. 

Yuuri’s mouth paused on his skin.  _Fuck_ , he thought furiously.  He could feel the pressure building behind his closed eyes.  His stupid drunk brain had him ten seconds away from crying, with Victor and Yuuri _right there,_ and for _what?_

He felt a warm puff of breath against his arm.  “Oh,” Victor said suddenly.  There was a note of realization in his voice that made Yuri’s breath hitch.  “Oh, Yurio—”

He felt Victor’s hand against his cheek.  Part of him wanted to pull away;  part of him wanted to hide his face in the cup of Victor’s fingers.  The contradictory impulses fired at the same time, and he trembled, did neither.

“Yurio,” Yuuri said.  Now _his_ voice held the note of realization.  “Oh, Yurio, I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have asked that, I wasn’t thinking—”

Yuri shook his head tightly, opened his mouth to say _it_ _’s fine,_ but nothing came out.  “Here, Yuuri, help me,” Victor said. 

He felt hands on his shoulders pulling him upright—felt Yuuri hug him close, hooking Yuri’s chin over his shoulder.  Victor moved up onto the couch behind him, a sudden tangle of limbs, and then Yuuri was guiding him back into the open _V_ of Victor’s lap, pushing until the fever-warm plane of Victor’s chest was pressed tight against Yuri’s back.  He was entirely too tall for them to be manhandling him like this, and he could only imagine how ridiculous he looked: gangly, uncoordinated, his face screwed up against impending tears like a child. 

Yuuri climbed into Yuri’s lap and settled over him like a heavy blanket.  Yuri burned between them, twin furnaces, baking all the cold out of the air against his skin.  He could feel Victor’s lips against his temple, the tip of Yuuri’s nose pressed into the curve of his neck.  “I’m sorry,” Yuuri murmured, a damp flutter of lips against his throat.  “I’m sorry we made you wait.”

He wished the furnace heat was enough to evaporate the tears collecting in the corners of his eyes.  He tried to think of something to say, but there wasn’t anything.  He couldn’t say that it didn’t matter.  He couldn’t say that it didn’t _hurt_.  It had happened the way it happened, and none of them could change it. 

The only thing he could do was focus on the present moment: the burning line of Victor’s body pressed along his spine, the bewildering jumble of Yuuri’s body in his arms, his hard muscle and post-retirement softness all curled up in Yuri’s lap, waiting for his touch.  They were both with him, right here, right now: quiet, and patient, and waiting for him to catch up.

“I think—” Yuri said at last, his voice raspy.“ I think I’m just a sad drunk.”

Yuuri kissed the wetness underneath his eyes.  “We’ll have to work on that,” he said.  “You’re not allowed to be sad.  It’s against the rules.”

“The rules of what?”

“Strip janken.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Yuri said, huffing laughter despite himself.  “You’ve been breaking the rules of strip janken all night, I can break—”

Yuuri pressed his lips firmly against Yuri’s.  “I,” Yuuri said into his mouth, “have never broken a rule in my _life_.”

Victor snorted, a hot puff of breath against Yuri’s cheek.  “You’ve almost been cited for public indecency _twice,_ ” Yuri said. 

“Yeah, _almost,_ ” Yuuri said. 

“You cheated at this game literally five minutes ago,” Victor said. 

“I told you, it’s not cheating if I _lose_.”

“Yeah?” Victor said, a casual challenge in his voice.  “Then play another round with me.”

“Fine,” Yuuri said.  “Arms out.”

Yuri craned his neck and watched as their hands bobbed in the air near his hip.  On the third count, Victor threw scissors, and Yuuri’s closed fist hesitated in the air for a half-second and then flattened, fitting itself between the blades of Victor’s fingers.  “Look at that,” Victor said.  “You lost.”

“Aw,” Yuuri said without a hint of disappointment.  “What do you want me to take off?”

“Nothing,” Victor said.

Yuuri squinted at Victor.  “But—”

“You said it before,” Victor said.  “The rule isn’t _loser has to strip._   It’s _loser has to do what the winner says._ And I say you have to trade places with me.”

Yuuri’s eyes widened, and he flattened himself against Yuri’s chest.  “No.”

“Don’t be a sore loser, Yuuri,” Victor said cheerfully.  “Trade with me!”

Yuri wasn’t exactly sure why Yuuri was so annoyed as they switched places, Yuuri wrapping warm arms around Yuri from behind, Victor kneeling precariously between their outstretched legs.  Then Victor slid his fingertips under the elastic waistband of Yuri’s underwear and Yuri got it.  “Jesus Christ,” Yuri groaned as Victor stripped him of his last piece of clothing.  “I can’t believe you played this game for an hour and _I_ _’m_ the first one with my dick out.”

“It’s not fair,” Yuuri grumbled.  He hooked his chin over Yuri’s shoulder and watched as Victor gave Yuri’s cock a slow, thorough squeeze. It was still half-hard, despite the alcohol and the embarrassing display of emotion.  “Maybe you followed the letter of the rule,” Yuuri said, “but I think you broke the _spirit_ of it.”

“Mmm,” Victor said agreeably, and without any fanfare dropped mouth-first onto Yuri’s dick. 

“ _Fuck!_ ” Yuri gasped, jerking up against Yuuri’s constraining arms.  He felt the faint vibration of Yuuri’s laugh against his shoulder, and the pulsing, impossibly deep heat of Victor’s throat around his cock.  “Fuck, _fuck—_ ”

“ _So_ unfair,” Yuuri said, dropping kisses along the line of his shoulder, “when he _knows_ how much I like doing it to you.  Just because he’s _better_ at it—”

Victor pulled off, pumping his fist around Yuri’s newly slickened cock.  “Don’t you want the best for Yurio?” he asked. 

Yuuri made a begrudging noise into the nape of Yuri’s neck.  He might’ve said something else, but Yuri was suddenly having trouble with the linearity of time.  He was exhausted and drunk and his body was a boiling kettle ready to whistle, and Victor was doing something with his tongue on the underside of his cock that made him want to cry for new reasons, and Yuuri was sucking marks onto his neck like a goddamn high schooler, even though he _knew_ he wasn’t supposed to, even though pictures of Yuri’s bruised neck had popped up on Instagram last month and now his fangirls were convinced he had a secret Japanese girlfriend, and holy _shit_ if they ever found out who was actually leaving them—

“It’s okay,” Yuuri said, and he felt a thumb brush against his mouth.  Yuri realized he was biting down hard on his lower lip.  “Relax.  We’ve got you.”

Yuri let his head loll back over Yuuri’s shoulder, and Yuuri kissed away the indents his teeth had left in his lip, kissed the vulnerable line of Yuri’s throat, and then Victor’s mouth was engulfing his cock again, so hot and wet and _deep_ that Yuri moaned, an embarrassingly unguarded sound, and what was the word Yuuko had used earlier?  _Commanding?_ Yuri had never felt less _commanding_ in his life, cradled there between the two of them, overwhelmed by their nearness.  But it wasn’t like he wanted them to _stop._   They had made a space for him in their lives, and even if that space was new, and painfully overdue, he’d take it—

Victor started bobbing his head fast, his nose bumping against the dark blond hair above Yuri’s cock, and time smeared in Yuri’s head again, thoughts fragmenting, sensations kaleidoscoping.  Yuuri was whispering something into his ear, an endless litany of somethings, and Yuri couldn’t discern a single one until Yuuri bit softly at his earlobe, dredging him up from his haze.  “How close are you?” Yuuri murmured. 

Suddenly Yuri could hear what Yuuri was hearing: his short, sharp, panting breaths, the helpless sound floating in the back of his throat.  His body started to tense and tighten in Yuuri’s arms, and Yuri threw a hand out, fingertips skimming Victor’s hair.  “Vic— _Victor—_ _”_

Victor sucked the head of Yuri’s cock into his cheek and pulled him over the edge with one hard upward stroke of his fist.  Yuri’s body seized and shuddered, Yuuri’s hands hot and restraining on his chest, Victor’s grip steely and steady as he milked Yuri into his mouth.  “There’s our Yurio,” Yuuri said, his voice low and loving.  “Right there—”

A wave of fatigue knocked Yuri limp.  His eyelids fluttered shut, and he jammed his head against Yuuri’s shoulder a moment before his neck muscles gave out.  He felt Victor pull off of his cock, tongue swiping one last time at his slit, and then he felt hands on his face, tasted himself on Victor’s lips. 

“Yurio,” Victor said, “I’m afraid you’ve been eliminated from this round of strip janken.”

Yuri resisted the urge to bite him.  “I swear to God,” he breathed, “the next time you play this game I’m gonna _murder_ you at it.”

“Aw,” Yuuri said.  “We finally awakened your competitive spirit.”

“Seriously, though, what the fuck is sake?” Yuri mumbled.  “I can’t keep my eyes open.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s weaker than liquor and stronger than wine,” Victor said.  Yuri felt a finger trace his jaw.  “Are you a sleepy drunk, Yurio?”

Yuri thought belatedly of that night a year ago when Otabek practically had to carry him from the club back to the hotel.  “Yeah.”

“We should get you into bed.”

“I can’t move,” Yuri said, “and I’m ninety-percent sure your drunk asses would drop me if you tried to carry me.  I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“Are you sure?” Yuuri asked.  “It’s not good for your back.”

“I,” Yuri said, “am going to lie right here, and you’re going to get back on the floor and finish this goddamn game while I laugh at you.”

It was optimistic of him.  He felt Yuuri get up off the couch and guide his head down onto one of the couch pillows, and then he was swallowed into dreamless darkness for a little while, bobbing up and down on the edge of consciousness.  He was aware of his overheated body starting to cool; was aware of a blanket pulling tight around his shoulders; was aware of quiet laughter, low voices, and soft, bitten-back groans.

Then there was a loud, startling scrape of wood against wood, and Yuri opened his eyes.  The coffee table had been pushed askew, half on the rug and half off. Victor was sitting next to it, groaning and rubbing his back, and Yuri saw a red mark on his skin, so dark it was almost purple. Yuri remembered clipping him with the front door earlier that evening; he must’ve hit the same spot on the edge of the table. 

A hand came up to caress Victor’s hip, and Yuri blearily realized Victor wasn’t sitting on the floor: he was sitting on _Yuuri_ , his ass flush against Yuuri’s thighs.  Of course he was.  Getting up to fuck in bed like normal people was clearly against the rules of strip janken.

Yuri wormed his arm out from under the blanket and reached towards Victor, his fingertips landing on the feathered edge of the bruise.  Victor glanced back in surprise as Yuri’s fingers gently rubbed around the perimeter of the mark.  “You okay?” Yuri mumbled.

Victor twisted around a little—Yuri heard Yuuri’s breathless _“Ah!”_ from underneath him—and he took Yuri’s hand in his.  “Yes,” Victor said softly.  He pressed a kiss against Yuri’s knuckles.  “Thank you.” 

He tucked Yuri’s arm back under the blanket, and Yuri stretched instinctively, turning over onto his other side and pressing his forehead against the couch cushions.  Sleep tugged at his eyelids immediately. 

He heard Yuuri say something, faint and indistinct.  “I know,” Victor said.  “Who would’ve thought he’d be such a sweet drunk?”

“Ugh,” Yuri said, “I’m _not_ ,” and was asleep before he could be annoyed by their laughter.

*

The first thing Yuri remembered when he woke up was Yuuri saying the couch wasn’t good for his back.  He was right: Yuri’s back ached almost as much as his head did.  He stretched gingerly, stifling a groan, and swung his legs to the floor. 

His feet didn’t touch the floor—they touched something soft and suspiciously person-feeling.  He recoiled and peered down.  Victor and Yuuri were tangled together at the foot of the couch, sound asleep.  They had managed to pull over one of the abandoned couch pillows and cram it underneath their heads before passing out, but otherwise the rug was the only thing separating them from the hard floor.  Yuuri was still in his shirt and lone sock—the clear winner of their game of strip janken—but Victor wasn’t wearing anything except Yuuri.

He felt a twinge as he looked at them, their bodies so perfectly and naturally entwined.  They couldn't be comfortable, but they slept heavily, and Yuri knew it was because on some level they were used to it: drinking too much, giddily picking each other to pieces, and falling asleep wherever the night left them.  They slept soundly because they knew they’d be facing the morning together. 

Well—that was one way of thinking about it. 

They were also close enough that he could touch them, crammed up against the wooden legs of the couch.  It wasn’t a big couch; Yuri barely fit on it by himself.  If Victor and Yuuri couldn’t fit, then lying on the floor just below it put them as close to Yuri as they could possibly get. 

He liked that thought a little better. 

He leaned down and stared hard at their chests to verify they were breathing, then draped his blanket on top of them and clambered over the side of the couch.  He gathered up water, aspirin, and a protein bar, and took them into the bathroom so he could start the shower running and suffer in peace. 

Half an hour later, the pain in his head had lessened by a fraction, and he had showered, brushed his teeth, and changed into his workout clothes.  He scrubbed away the steam on the bathroom mirror and inspected the _four_ goddamn bruises on his neck, each more photogenic and eye-catching than the last.  He dug Victor’s expensive-as-fuck concealer out of one of the drawers and applied it liberally, then put some on the bags under his eyes for good measure.  On most mornings he’d go out for a jog in the gorgeous Hasetsu sunshine, but today he thought he’d do some stretching in Minako’s old ballet studio.  Her empty, quiet, _unlit_ ballet studio. 

He went out to the front room.  Victor and Yuuri hadn’t changed position at all, and he stood over them, internally debating.  He could just let them sleep; they’d figure out where he went when they finally came to.  Hasetsu was small.  There were only so many places he could possibly be. 

Or—

Or he could reach out.  He could pry open that space between them and fit himself inside, like he belonged there. 

He went and unplugged Yuuri’s cell phone from its charger.  He unlocked it—Yuuri’s passcode had been Victor’s birthday for all four years Yuri had known him—and he set an alarm for 2 PM.  Then he set another for 2:05, and another for 2:10, and then another for 2:30, because he knew _exactly_ how Victor and Yuuri operated the morning after a bender. 

He went back out to the front room and knelt down at Yuuri’s side.  There was a spot of drool gleaming on the edge of his mouth, and Yuri wiped it away with his thumb.  “Hey, dummy,” he said. 

He saw a muscle in Victor’s jaw move, and then Yuuri’s eyes fluttered open.  He squinted hazily up at Yuri.  “Yurio?” he murmured.

“Our rink time’s at four,” Yuri said.  “I set your alarm for two.”  He waved Yuuri’s phone in front of his bleary eyes, then put it down on the floor near his head.  “I’m going to Minako’s.”

Yuuri tilted his head in dazed contemplation, and then he reached up, hooking his arm around Yuri’s neck.  Yuri let himself be pulled down, let his still-throbbing head rest for a long moment on Yuuri’s chest.  Yuuri’s fingers skimmed through his hair, danced along his cheek, and finally Yuri couldn’t help himself: he moved up and slipped his minty tongue into Yuuri’s sleep-sour mouth.  Yuuri kissed him back, drowsy and slow, and when Yuri finally lifted his head, the look in Yuuri’s eyes was so tender he almost couldn’t stand it. 

“I love you,” Yuuri murmured. 

Yuri’s heart knocked hard against his ribs.  “Yeah?” he said, brushing the hair off Yuuri’s forehead.  “You have bad taste in men.”

“Hey,” Victor complained rustily, his eyes still closed. 

Yuri leaned over and nipped at the faint pout on Victor’s lower lip.  “Four o’clock, asshole,” he said.  “If you don’t show up, I’m sending Yuuko’s kids after you.”

“Yes, coach,” Victor mumbled, pulling the blanket tighter over his shoulders. 

Yuri stood up.  The two of them settled into each other and were quiet again; Yuri watched them for a long moment, silent and still. 

Then he stole Victor’s $300 sunglasses from the side table and went out into the bright Hasetsu morning.  He was exhausted, hungover, and feeling better than he had in weeks. 

Come four o’clock, he was going to tear the ice apart. The world wouldn't know what hit them.

 


End file.
